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Awesome baby, 36 Public Square, Blue Rapids, KS (2025)

08/07/2025

"Farewell, Family"

"No, Mum, just no! Don’t call me again! I’m done with your endless demands!" Emily flung her phone onto the sofa and buried her face in her hands.

"What’s happened now?" James stepped out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a tea towel.

"It’s Mum—again. She’s asking for money for Sophie. Now she 'needs' a new winter coat because it’s 'embarrassing to wear the old one when her husband’s a director.' Meanwhile, no one bats an eye that I’ve had the same phone for three years!"

James sighed and sat beside his wife. For the last five years, their marriage had felt like a constant battle against Emily’s relatives, who clung to their finances like leeches, always with some new excuse.

It started small: first, Mum needed help fixing the roof on their cottage. Then Sophie demanded money for her wedding. After that, Emily’s brother, Oliver, got tangled in debt and begged for a bailout. The requests never ended.

"Em, I can’t stay quiet anymore," James said, squeezing her shoulder. "We work ourselves to the bone. I take extra shifts at the hospital; you stay up late doing translations. And your family treats our money like it’s theirs."

Emily wiped her eyes. She knew he was right—but how could she explain that to her mother? How do you say no to the people you love?

"They’re my family, James. I can’t just cut them off."

"I’m not asking you to. But we need boundaries. Sophie’s married to a 'director,' as you keep saying. Why can’t *he* buy her a coat? And Oliver—he’s been promising to pay us back for a year. We cancelled our holiday because of him!"

The phone rang again. Emily flinched. Mum.

"Don’t answer," James murmured.

But she’d already picked up.

"Yes, Mum?"

"Emily, why are you speaking to me like that? This isn’t for me—Sophie’s pregnant! She can’t catch a chill. You have the money—James earns well, and you went to Spain last year!"

"We saved for *two years* for that trip! And Sophie’s husband isn’t unemployed. Why can’t he buy her a coat?"

"They’ve got a mortgage, a new car. You know how expensive things are! And you’re begrudging your own sister—"

"I’m not begrudging anyone," Emily cut in, exhausted. "But we have plans too. We’re trying for a baby. We need to save."

"Ah! So it’s *James’s* influence! You were never this hard-hearted before. Family helps family!"

Emily’s hands shook. She’d *always* helped—Mum, Sophie, Oliver. She’d sacrificed so much for them.

"I have to go, Mum. Work." She hung up mid-complaint.

James watched her shoulders slump. It killed him to see her crushed by the people who should’ve lifted her up.

"We need to talk, Em. This can’t go on."

"I know," she whispered. "But not tonight. Please."

He nodded and went to make dinner. She needed time. But something had to change—soon.

That evening, as they ate, the doorbell rang. They weren’t expecting anyone.

Sophie stood on the doorstep—immaculate in a designer dress, fresh manicure, and a handbag that cost more than Emily’s monthly earnings.

"Hi, sis!" she trilled, breezing in uninvited. "Mum said you refused to help with my coat. Is that true?"

Emily froze. James stepped forward, his voice icy. "Yes, Sophie. We can’t afford it."

"But you *always* help! What’s changed?"

"We have our own priorities," Emily said firmly.

Sophie scoffed. "Priorities? Oh, right—Mum said you’re 'saving for a baby.' At your age? Ridiculous! I need that coat *now*—I’m pregnant!"

James’s jaw tightened. They’d struggled for years to conceive. The casual cruelty stung.

"Sophie," he said evenly, "your husband’s a director. Why can’t *he* buy it?"

"He’s got cash flow issues," she muttered. "Not everyone’s as lucky as you."

"*Lucky?*" Emily burst out. "James works two jobs! I translate through the night! We pinch every penny!"

"Oh, *please*," Sophie rolled her eyes. "Poor you. Yet James somehow bought those fancy watches."

"I used my bonus," James snapped. "And you know what? Time to leave."

Sophie gaped. "Emily! You’ll let him speak to me like that?"

Emily hesitated—then stood her ground. "Soph, we can’t give you the money."

"Unbelievable!" Sophie’s phone rang—a latest-model iPhone, worth thousands. She cooed into it: "Yes, darling, at Emily’s… Leaving now… Of course we’ll buy it. Kisses!"

She hung up and glared. "That was Charlie. We’re off to buy nursery furniture. Since you’re so *stingy*, we’ll manage without you!"

The door slammed behind her. Emily sank onto a chair, trembling. James held her.

"Did you see her *phone*? And they ‘can’t afford’ a coat?"

"I saw," he said quietly. "Em, we need to decide. This won’t stop unless we stop it."

She looked up, tear-streaked. "But they’re my family."

"Family doesn’t bleed you dry. They’ll keep taking as long as you let them."

---

The next morning, Oliver called.

"Em, I need money. Now."

"What for this time?" she sighed.

"Melanie’s birthday. She loves jewellery—you know that."

Melanie, his girlfriend of five years, adored lavish gifts despite Oliver’s debts.

"Ollie, what about flowers? Or perfume?"

"*Flowers?* Last year I got her a white-gold bracelet—I can’t downgrade to *daisies*!"

Emily’s temper flared. *She’d* paid for that bracelet. And the March 8th ring. Meanwhile, her own jewellery box was modest.

"Sorry, Ollie. I can’t help."

"What? Is James controlling you now? Or did you blow it all on yourselves?"

"This isn’t about James! *I* earn too. We decide *together* how to spend our money."

"Right, so your husband’s a tightfisted git. You never used to say no."

"Oliver," she steadied her voice, "you still owe me for your loan bailout. Six months ago. You promised to repay in a *month*."

"Yeah, well, things haven’t panned out. I’ll pay when I’m back on my feet. But I need this *now*—for Melanie!"

"And what about *my* needs? My *family’s* future? Ollie, I won’t be your ATM anymore. You’ve got a degree—get a proper job!"

"God, *dareamatic*. You’re my sister! Just this once, yeah?"

*This once.* She’d heard that a hundred times. Never again.

"No, Oliver. I can’t."

Silence. Then—

"Fine! *Screw you.* Count your pennies, then. Mum’s right—you’ve turned into a selfish snob since marrying that doctor!"

The line went dead. Emily sat numb, fury and grief warring inside.

That night, she told James everything.

"Maybe you were right," she admitted. "Oliver called me an ATM. And I realised—that’s *all* I am to them."

James …
C🅾️ntinue ➡ in the 💬c🅾️mments -

08/07/2025

**Diary Entry – 18th June**

I can scarcely believe it. Here I am, twirling in a waltz with you again, just as I did twenty years ago. Do you recall our last meeting? It was at the school dance. We swayed to the music then, too. Happiness hung in the air like mist. I drowned in the depths of your eyes—so very blue. That night, I longed to tell you the most important thing—that soon, we would be parents. But when I did, you were furious.

You cut me off sharply: *"It’s too soon to think of this. We should wait."*
Your words scalded me. Deep down, I knew the timing was wrong—but what could be done? Some things cannot be undone. We parted ways, yet my love for you lingered like a stubborn shadow. You bruised my heart that night, shattered my spirit. I knew you wouldn’t change your mind, wouldn’t realise your mistake. Your will was always flint—hard and unyielding. And foolishly, that’s what I adored most about you.

Over the years, the girls kept me updated on your life. Married, two grown sons, now divorced. You never missed a single reunion, always asking after me. But our old classmates knew nothing of my life—because I never went. Fear held me back. Fear of you. Fear that one glance into those blue eyes would pull me under, drowning me for good. For ten long years, I stayed away.

Then *he* came along. I rushed into marriage, feeling nothing but gratitude toward him. He understood—and never pushed. He took my daughter as his own. I named her Hope. No other name would do. She’s your mirror image, down to the last curl.

My husband loves me. I feel it in every fibre of my being—his words, his gestures, even his gaze speaks of tenderness. It took five years before I realised I’d fallen in love with him. Somehow, he became my anchor, quietly unlocking the doors to my heart. Now, nothing can touch what we have.

Love saves all things, Edward. But you? You never truly loved me. To you, I was just a youthful diversion.
Ah, but that’s all in the past now.

Enough about me. How have you been, Edward?

*"Oh, Katherine… Life’s been a bit of a mess, if I’m honest. No direction. My sons have their own lives now. I’m alone. And… I’ve thought of you often."*

*"Hmm. Well, my husband and I have three children—Hope and twin girls, six years old. Remember your best friend, James Weston?"*

*"Weston? Of course! He wasn’t just my best friend—he was my only one. But after school, he vanished. Never returned my calls, avoided me… I’ve no idea what became of him."*

*"Edward, come to the…
C🅾️ntinue ➡ in the 💬c🅾️mments -

08/07/2025

**Diary Entry: A Mother's Best Intentions**

Emma sat silently at the kitchen table, watching as Margaret Lawson chopped apples for a Victoria sponge, chatting enthusiastically about something—but Emma wasn’t listening. It had been a month since her mother-in-law had come to stay, and tension was wearing her down. Her marriage to William had been happy—five wonderful years—yet these past weeks had made her question whether she’d made a mistake marrying a man so tied to his mother’s apron strings.

"Emma, dear, you’re not listening at all!" Margaret stopped mid-sentence, pursing her lips disapprovingly. "I was saying William should find a new job. That little design firm of his isn’t proper work! My friend Elizabeth said she could take him on at her construction company. Better pay, real prospects—a promotion within a year! And you could stay home, focus on the family."

Emma took a steadying breath. "Margaret, William chooses where he works. He’s a grown man."

"Of course he’s grown! But you’re his wife—you should guide him! Designing buildings isn’t man’s work!" Margaret huffed.

"He’s an architect, and a brilliant one. He loves what he does," Emma said, barely keeping her temper in check.

"Loves it?" Margaret threw her hands up. "What about money? That firm pays pennies! And children—how will you afford to raise them?"

"We’re not planning for children yet," Emma replied quietly, though they’d had this argument before. "And we manage fine."

"Not planning? At your age?" Margaret set down the knife, turning fully toward Emma. "Good heavens, what am I to do with you? Five years married and no babies! I was raising William by your age!"

Emma said nothing. She *did* want children—desperately. But not now, not when she’d just earned her PhD and secured a lectureship at the university. They had agreed: three more years to establish her career, *then* they’d start a family.

Misreading her silence as surrender, Margaret pressed on. "My friend Angela’s daughter has *three* children already, and her husband—now *there’s* a real man. Built them a proper house!"

"Margaret," Emma forced calm into her voice, "William and I will decide what’s best for us. I respect you, but—"

"Respect? I’m his *mother*! I know what’s best!" Margaret’s voice rose. "Oh, Emma, you’re still so young. A mother only wants the best!"

Emma shook her head and left the kitchen. Arguing was pointless. Upstairs in their cosy semi-detached—bought two years ago with a mortgage—she lay on the bed, eyes closed, exhaustion weighing on her. Between teaching, research, and Margaret’s constant meddling, she was fraying at the edges.

That evening, William came home tired but beaming. "Guess what? I’ve been made lead designer on the new project!" he announced, kissing her.

"That’s wonderful, love!" Emma smiled, genuinely thrilled for him.

"William! What project? How much are they paying?" Margaret swooped in.

"It’s a luxury housing development. The pay’s better, of course," William said cheerfully.

"*How* much better?" Margaret pressed.

"Mum, does it matter? We’re fine."

"Fine? With a mortgage? That rust bucket you drive won’t last another winter! Angela’s son just bought—"

"Angela’s son isn’t *me*," William cut in, frowning. "Drop it, please. I’m knackered."

Dinner was a lecture on responsibility. William stayed quiet; Emma seethed silently. Later, alone in their room, she finally snapped.

"William, I can’t take it anymore. Your mother interferes with *everything*—our jobs, our plans, *us*! When is she leaving?"

He sighed. "Annie… she means well. You know how she is."

"Yes—fine for a weekend, unbearable for a month! The ‘renovations’ on her flat can’t possibly take this long!"

"It’s temporary," he soothed. "Just bear with her a bit longer?"

Emma nodded tightly. What choice did she have?

The next morning, as Emma got ready for work, Margaret appeared in the doorway. "Emma, we need to talk."

"Not now—I’m late."

"This is *important*," Margaret insisted, perching on the bed. "You must quit your job."

Emma froze. "*What*?"

"To start a family! William wants children—I *know* he does!"

"Did he say that?" Emma’s pulse jumped.

"Well, not *exactly*… but a mother *knows*!"

Emma took a deep breath. "We’ve agreed: three more years. End of discussion."

Margaret scoffed. "Three years? You’ll be *thirty-three*! Do you know the risks?"

"Plenty of women have babies after thirty," Emma said firmly, grabbing her bag. "We’ll talk tonight—with *William*."

That evening, they returned to a surprise: a lavish dinner set in the dining room.

"Are we celebrating something?" William asked, puzzled.

"*Yes*!" Margaret beamed. "We’re having a family meeting!"

Emma’s stomach sank.

Margaret raised her wineglass. "I’ve spoken to Elizabeth—they’ll take you on, William! A managerial role, *double* your salary!"

William choked on his wine. "Mum—*what*?"

"It’s all arranged! Look, I printed the details—" She pushed papers toward him.

Emma watched as William’s jaw tightened.

"I’m not changing jobs," he said flatly.

"But think of your *future*! How will you support a family?"

"We *don’t* have children yet," William reminded her.

"Exactly! But soon!" Margaret shot Emma a pointed look. "Emma’s resigning to focus on motherhood."

William turned to Emma, stunned. "*Are* you?"

"*No*!" Emma exclaimed. "We agreed—three years!"

Margaret gasped. "Three years? You’ll be *thirty-three*! I had William at twenty-two—that’s *proper* timing!"

"*Mum*," William cut in, voice sharp, "this isn’t your decision."

"I just want what’s *best*!"

William took her hands gently. "We know you do. But *best* is what *we* choose."

Margaret’s face crumpled.

Later, Emma found her hunched over the laptop. The screen flashed: *How to Persuade Couples to Have Children*.

"Margaret… we need to talk," Emma said softly.

"About what?" Margaret feigned innocence.

"About boundaries."

Just then, William stormed in, livid…
C🅾️ntinue ➡ in the 💬c🅾️mments -

08/07/2025

The Gift That Brought Shame

A fruit basket sat on the kitchen table like a silent accusation. Grace Williams glanced at it again and sighed deeply. From the living room came the sound of the telly—her husband, Michael, was engrossed in yet another fishing programme. Nothing ever bothered him.

"Grace, you coming? Tea’s getting cold," Michael called.

She winced. He couldn’t even heat his own tea.

"Be right there," she replied, grabbing jam from the fridge.

Passing the hallway mirror, Grace absently tucked back a stray grey strand. Time had flown. It felt like yesterday she’d married Michael, and now they were celebrating their daughter’s fiftieth birthday.

Emma. Just thinking of her made Grace’s chest tighten. It had been a week since their row, and Emma hadn’t called. As usual, Grace was the one blamed. And she’d only wanted the best.

Beside Michael’s unwashed mug lay a wedding photo in a simple wooden frame—young, blissful. Grace in a lace gown, Michael in a stiff suit. Who’d have guessed forty years later, their life would be a routine of unspoken words and quiet resentment?

"You stuck out there?" Michael called again.

Grace shook off the memories and carried in the tea tray.

"Still brooding?" he asked, eyes glued to the screen.

"Unlike you, who couldn’t care less!" she burst out. "You could call Emma. Apologise."

"For what?" Michael finally turned. "For giving her a gift? Ridiculous."

Grace set the tray down and perched on the sofa edge.

"It was a dreadful gift, Michael. Even I know that."

"It’s a fine china set," he shrugged. "Cost us three hundred quid, mind you."

"It’s not about the money," Grace sighed. "You should’ve seen her face when she opened it. She hated that set thirty years ago, and we kept it to regift for her birthday? She thought we were mocking her."

"We weren’t!" he snapped. "We thought it was thoughtful. It’s vintage now."

Grace shook her head. Men never understood nuance. They’d received the set from Michael’s distant relatives at their wedding. She remembered young Emma turning a cup in her hands, sneering, *"Mum, who wants floral dinosaurs like this?"* The set had gathered dust in the cabinet until this disastrous idea.

"Tastes change," Michael insisted. "Vintage’s trendy now. All those hipsters hunt for old stuff."

"Emma’s not a hipster!" Grace cried. "She’s a CFO at a Fortune 500 firm. Her flat’s all minimalist, not granny’s china cabinet."

"She could’ve just said ‘thanks’ and binned it," he grumbled. "Not made a scene in front of everyone."

Grace recalled the moment: Emma opening the box, staring, then looking up, pale. *"Is this... that same set from your cabinet?"*

*"Yes, love!"* Grace had beamed. *"Remember how you always admired it?"*

Silence. Then Emma’s icy reply: *"I never liked it. You knew that."*

"Overreacting," Michael sipped his tea. "So she didn’t like it. Big deal."

"The big deal is we don’t know our own daughter. What she loves, how she lives."

Michael huffed. "Drama queen. Takes after you."

Grace opened her mouth, but the phone rang. Hoping for Emma, she snatched it up.

"Hello?"

"Grace? It’s Margaret," chimed their neighbour. "Could you pop over? These new pills are gibberish to me."

"On my way," Grace said, hanging up.

"Who was that?" Michael asked.

"Margaret. Just helping her with meds."

"Charity runs again," he muttered. "Who’s making lunch?"

Grace sighed. "Soup’s in the fridge. Heat it."

She grabbed a cardigan and left. The stairwell smelled of fish from downstairs and smoke from the fifth-floor couple.

Margaret answered immediately, ushering her in. "Come in, dear! Made a Victoria sponge—tea?"

Grace protested, but Margaret insisted. As the neighbour bustled, Grace studied her wall of photos: Margaret with family, all smiles.

"How’s Emma?" Margaret asked, bringing tea. "Coping post-divorce?"

"She’s managing," Grace deflected.

"And young Oliver? At uni now?"

"Third year."

Margaret eyed her. "You’re down today. What’s wrong?"

Grace spilled everything—the china set, the fight, Michael’s stubbornness.

"Listen," Margaret said after, "just talk to Emma. Without Michael. Admit you messed up."

"She won’t answer."

"Then visit! She’s not abroad."

Grace pondered. Pride had stopped her—or fear of hearing they’d become out-of-touch old fools.

"You’re right," she decided. "I’ll go today."

"Good," Margaret nodded. "Now, try this sponge."

At home, Michael hadn’t moved from the telly.

"Michael, I’m seeing Emma."

"Why?"

"To apologise."

"Not this again!" he turned. "It’s just china!"

"It’s not about the china. It’s about us not listening."

"Fine," he surrendered. "But don’t tell her I caved. That set was class."

Grace rolled her eyes. Forty years, and he’d not softened.

Emma lived in a sleek high-rise. On the bus, Grace watched the city blur past, thinking how hard it was to truly see those closest to you.

Oliver answered the door. "Gran? You didn’t call!"

"Surprise," Grace said, handing him scones. "Mum home?"

"In her office. Come in."

Grace slipped off her shoes. Emma’s flat always awed her—modern, monochrome, no clutter. A world apart from their chintz.

Emma emerged, tense. "Mum? What’s wrong?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to talk."

Emma checked her watch. "I’ve a Zoom in thirty—"

"I’ll be quick." Grace sat. "I’m sorry about the gift. You were right—it was thoughtless."

Emma blinked. "You’re apologising for the china?"

"And for not knowing you. We’ve been stuck in the past."

Emma sank into a chair. "Mum... it wasn’t just the china. It’s that you’ve never asked who I am now. Not once—my music, my books, my life."

Grace swallowed hard. "You’re right. Parents forget their children are their own people."

"And I’m guilty too," Emma admitted. "I visit once a month like clockwork, bring shopping, leave. Like a chore."

"We’ve all messed up," Grace smiled through tears. "But it’s not too late, is it?"

Emma shook her head. "No."

"Then tell me," Grace leaned in, "what music do you love now?"

Emma laughed. "Seriously?"

"Deadly."

"Jazz, mostly fifties. I read finance manuals, but crime novels for fun. And I’m learning Spanish—dream trip to Barcelona."

Grace listened, stunned. How much she’d missed.

"And... anyone special since the divorce?" she ventured.

Emma flushed. "There’s someone. Didn’t say because... well, he’s seven years younger. Thought you’d disapprove."

"We’re traditional, not daft," Grace smiled. "If he’s kind..."

"He is," Emma grinned. "Teaches history. Ollie adores him."

"Bring him to dinner. And no heirlooms as gifts, promise!"

They laughed.

"Actually," Emma mused, "that set’s grown on me. Proper vintage now. Might move it to the cottage."

"Don’t humour me," Grace chided.

"No, really!" Emma insisted. "We …
C🅾️ntinue ➡ in the 💬c🅾️mments -

08/07/2025

The hallway in the old council flat was narrow and long, like a winding gut. The walls were lined with yellowed floral wallpaper, and beneath their feet, the worn-out floorboards creaked with every step, laid back in the post-war years. It always smelled of boiled cabbage and cats, though no cats had ever lived in flat number seven.

Edith didn’t answer the door right away. First came the clatter of locks, then a long pause as she peered through the peephole. Only then did she swing it open.

"Finally!" she exclaimed, pulling her daughter into a stiff hug. "I was starting to think you weren’t coming. Hurry in, love—I’ve got a pie in the oven."

Emily shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, clutching a gift bag in her hands.

"Mum, I can’t stay long. I just popped by to wish you happy birthday. Dave’s waiting in the car."

Edith’s face fell. The delight vanished, replaced by a tight-lipped frown.

"Popped by? I’ve set the table, cooked a spread. Esther from upstairs is coming, and Margaret with her granddaughter. They’re all expecting you. Sixty-five isn’t just any birthday, you know."

"Mum," Emily chewed her lip, nerves fraying, "I told you on the phone. Dave’s father’s celebrating his seventieth today—big do at The Crown. Relatives, friends, all his mates are going. We can’t not show up."

"So you can skip mine, is that it?" Edith folded her arms. "His lot are more important than your own mother?"

"Mum, don’t be like that," Emily sighed, cornered. "I offered to move yours to tomorrow—just us, a proper family celebration with cake and presents. But you insisted on today."

"And why shouldn’t I? My birthday’s today, not tomorrow!" Edith threw up her hands. "Esther’s already on her way, and I’ve baked! What am I supposed to tell them? That my own daughter chose strangers over her flesh and blood?"

The air in the cramped hall grew stifling. The scent of pie from the kitchen mixed with the old, familiar weight of guilt settling over Emily’s shoulders.

"They’re not strangers. They’re Dave’s family. And we got the invite a week ago—before you even planned anything."

"A week ago! And when was I born, eh? Yesterday?" Edith scoffed. "You shouldn’t need an invitation to remember your own mother’s birthday."

Emily checked her watch. Dave had been sitting outside for fifteen minutes. They were late.

"Look, I can’t argue right now. Here," she thrust out the bag, "it’s the kettle you wanted, the one with the temperature control. And this," she dug into her purse for an envelope, "is for that coat you liked at Debenhams."

Edith didn’t take either.

"I don’t want your handouts," she snapped. "I want my daughter’s time. Though what am I saying? You couldn’t even bring Sophie to see her nan."

"Sophie’s running a fever—thirty-eight point five," Emily said wearily. "I rang you this morning. The childminder’s with her."

"A childminder!" Edith rolled her eyes. "So I’m not good enough to mind my own granddaughter?"

The doorbell rang. Esther from upstairs stood on the step in her Sunday best, holding a cake box.

"Happy birthday, love!" she chimed, then faltered at the tension in the air. "Oh. Bad timing?"

"Not at all!" Edith brightened artificially. "Come in! Meet my Emily. Dropped by for all of five minutes before dashing off to more important people."

Esther winced.

"Now, now, Edith. Young folks have their own lives."

"And I’m not stopping her!" Edith stepped aside theatrically. "Go on, then. Wouldn’t want Dave’s dad feeling slighted. Your mother? Ah, she’ll manage."

Emily hovered, the gift bag and envelope heavy in her hands. Her phone buzzed—Dave, no doubt wondering where she was.

"Mum, please," she said quietly. "Not in front of guests. I’ll come tomorrow with Sophie, soon as she’s better. Just us."

"Guests?" Edith arched a brow. "Esther’s more family than some. At least she visits. Not like some, flitting in once a month for five minutes, shoving money at me like it solves everything."

Esther edged toward the kitchen.

"I’ll, er, put the kettle on," she muttered, fleeing the scene.

"Fine." Emily set the gifts firmly on the side table. "Happy birthday, Mum."

She pecked Edith’s cheek and escaped before another barb could follow. The stairwell smelled of damp and dust. Emily pressed her back to the wall and breathed deep, steadying herself.

Her phone buzzed again. This time, she answered.

"Coming now."

"What took so long?" Dave sounded tense. "We’re twenty minutes late."

"The usual," she said flatly.

Outside, Dave’s Toyota idled by the curb. He drummed his fingers on the wheel.

"Well?"

"Didn’t take it well." Emily buckled in. "Said I’m no daughter of hers, choosing your dad over her."

Dave sighed. "Here we go again. Maybe you should’ve stayed."

"And what would that change?" She leaned back, exhausted. "Tomorrow it’d be the wrong gift, or Sophie being too loud, or me not visiting enough. It never ends."

The car pulled away.

"Remember last year?" Emily stared out the window. "I cancelled our holiday to throw her a party. Spent all day cooking, invited her friends. And she sulked because the cake was shop-bought. Said I didn’t care about her health."

"I remember." Dave turned onto the high street. "You were upset for a week."

"And when Sophie was born?" Emily’s vision blurred with old frustration. "Instead of helping, she just criticised—how I held her, how I fed her. Then wondered why I didn’t ask her to babysit."

"Listen," Dave shot her a glance, "maybe we should see someone? You, me, your mum?"

Emily gave a dry laugh.

"She’d sooner die than admit there’s a problem. To her, therapy’s for nutters."

The restaurant loomed ahead, lit up for the party. Laughing guests streamed inside.

"We’re here," Dave parked. "Try not to think about her tonight, yeah? Dad’s been looking forward to this."

Emily nodded, reapplying her lipstick. Time to paste on a smile.

Inside, the room buzzed with chatter. Dave’s father—tall, silver-haired, still straight-backed from his army days—greeted them at the door.

"There they are!" he boomed, embracing them. "Emily, you look lovely!"

"Happy birthday," she kissed his cheek. "Sorry we’re late. I was… with Mum."

His smile dimmed. "How is she? Give her my regards. Awkward timing, this."

"Very." Emily forced lightness into her voice. "We’ll celebrate with her properly tomorrow."

"And Sophie? Dave said she’s poorly."

"Just a temperature. We left her with the childminder."

"Good call." He patted her shoulder. "Health comes first. Now, come—everyone’s waiting."

The banquet hall glittered. Emily played her part—smiling, toasting, dancing—but her mind lingered in that dingy flat, imagining Edith sighing over her ingratitude to Esther.

During a lull, Dave’s mother, elegant in navy silk, took the seat beside her.

"You seem down tonight," she murmured. "Everything alright?"

Emily faked a …
C🅾️ntinue ➡ in the 💬c🅾️mments -

08/07/2025

Jenny looked at the flour scattered across the kitchen floor and bit her lip to keep from crying. In the dim glow of the overhead light, the white streaks on the linoleum looked almost like delicate frost patterns. But there was no time for poetic thoughts—guests would arrive in an hour, and the apple pie wasn’t even started.

"Another mess?" Mark’s voice cut through the air as he stepped into the kitchen. "Mum’s coming over, and you’re—typical."

Jenny pressed her lips together. "It was an accident, Mark. The bag tore."

"With you, it’s always something," he snapped, yanking open the fridge for a bottle of mineral water. "Thirty-five years old and still clumsy as a child."

Jenny scooped up the flour, swallowing the sting. Ten years of this had taught her to hide her hurt.

"Right, I’m off to pick Mum up," Mark checked his watch. "Table’s set by seven. Try not to embarrass me today, yeah? It’s her sixtieth."

The door slammed behind him, and Jenny sank onto a stool, exhaling sharply. She remembered meeting Mark at the library where she worked—how charming he’d seemed, dropping by daily, borrowing books she recommended, lingering late. Then came the theatre invites. Back then, she’d felt like a romance heroine—a single mum swept off her feet by a handsome, confident man. Who knew the fairy would end so soon?

Her son, Jamie, slipped into the kitchen like a shadow.

"He at it again?" He nodded toward the door.

"Enough," Jenny sighed. "That’s your stepfather you’re talking about."

"The one who treats you like hired help."

Jenny had no reply. At sixteen, Jamie saw too clearly.

"Shouldn’t you be doing homework instead of eavesdropping?" she muttered, wiping the counter.

Jamie snorted but didn’t argue. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves and started helping.

"We need to talk, Mum," he said quietly. "After my A-levels—I want to study comp sci in Manchester."

Jenny froze. "Manchester? We agreed you’d go to the local uni. The halls are cheaper, and—"

"And Mark gets to keep belittling you whenever he pleases?" Jamie cut in. "I can’t watch it anymore."

"Love, that’s just… life. Families have ups and downs."

"This isn’t a family, Mum. It’s—" He broke off, shaking his head, and left.

By the time the guests arrived, Jenny had pulled herself together—table set, pie baked, hair fixed. Mark’s mother, Margaret, elegant in a tailored dress, critiqued the spread with her eyes but stayed silent. A small victory.

"Sit down, Margaret," Jenny fussed. "Emily and David will be here any minute."

Margaret adjusted her silver-streaked fringe. "Where’s that boy of yours?" She said it like she was asking after a stray cat.

"In his room. I’ll fetch him."

"Still buried in his books, is he?" Margaret sighed. "Waste of time. No practical skills—just like his father."

Jenny stiffened but said nothing. Margaret had always sneered at her first husband, though they’d never met. Mocking the dead felt vile, but arguing wasn’t an option.

The doorbell saved her. Emily and David—Mark’s sister and her husband, a successful businessman who always put Mark in a foul mood—breezed in.

"Happy birthday, Mummy!" Emily flung her arms around Margaret. "You look radiant! Sixty? Never!"

Margaret beamed. Emily knew just what to say.

"Jenny," David kissed her hand, "you look lovely. New haircut?"

Jenny flushed, catching Mark’s glare. "Thanks for noticing."

Mark poured champagne, pointedly ignoring Jamie. "To the birthday girl! The best mum in the world!"

"And grandma!" Emily added. "Well… actually—Mum, we’ve got news."

Margaret frowned. "What news?"

"We’re having a baby!" Emily announced.

Margaret gasped, tearing up, while David grinned. Mark forced a smile.

"Congratulations," Jenny said softly. "That’s wonderful."

"And when are you two starting?" Margaret turned sharply. "Mark’s nearly forty, and still no children of his own. Just someone else’s."

Silence. Jenny’s face burned.

"Mum, we’ve talked about this," Mark hissed.

"Talked about what? Her precious library career?" Margaret scoffed. "What sort of career is that? All my friends have grandkids, and I’ve got… him." She nodded at Jamie. "And he’s not exactly chatty."

"Margaret," Jenny snapped. "Jamie’s right here."

"Am I wrong?" Margaret turned to Jamie. "Sulking in his room, barely speaks. Off to Manchester, are you? With whose money?"

Jenny stared at Jamie. How did she know?

"I’ve got a side job," Jamie said calmly. "Freelance web design. Pays well."

"What nonsense," Mark cut in. "You should be focusing on school, not wasting time."

"It’s my future," Jamie shot back. "And it’s good money."

"Who said you could do that?" Mark’s voice rose. "Under my roof, you follow my rules!"

"Your roof, your rules," Jamie muttered. "But I’m not your son, am I? So why should I listen?"

Mark’s face darkened. "Exactly! Not my son. Never will be!"

"Mark!" Jenny cried. "Stop this!"

"Stop what? Telling the truth? Ten years I’ve fed him, clothed him, and what thanks do I get? Glued to his computer, now sneaking off to uni behind my back!"

"Behind your back?" Jamie laughed coldly. "I don’t care what you think. You’re nothing to me."

"Jamie!" Jenny’s eyes darted between them. "Mark, please—not today. It’s Margaret’s birthday."

"No, today’s perfect!" Mark snarled. "Ten years I’ve put up with your brat, and now I’m paying for his Manchester dream?"

Margaret nodded approvingly. Emily and David stared at their plates. Jamie stood pale but steady.

"I’ll pay my own way," he repeated. "I don’t need a thing from you."

"Oh really?" Mark sneered. "Who pays for this roof? Your food? Your clothes? All mine! If you want to stay, Manchester’s off the table. Local uni, under my watch. That’s the deal."

Something inside Jenny snapped. Ten years of jabs, sneers, neglect—all for stability, for Jamie. Now Mark was dictating her son’s future.

"Enough," she said quietly. "Margaret’s celebration, and we’ve made a scene."

"Your son made the scene," Mark shot back. "Always about him. And you always defend him! Ungrateful whelp and his doting mother. Planning to leech off me forever?"

Jenny stood slowly. The room fell silent.

"I’ve worked at the library for fifteen years," she said, voice steady. "Two degrees. I never asked you to support Jamie—we managed fine before you."

Mark scoffed. "Oh, really? Could’ve fooled me."

"Because you never looked." Jenny turned to Jamie. "You wanted a maid, not a wife. You got one. But no more."

Mark frowned. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Jenny met Jamie’s eyes, "we’re leaving."

Dead silence.

"You’ve lost it," Mark spat. "Where the hell will…
C🅾️ntinue ➡ in the 💬c🅾️mments -

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